


The Auction Floor

by gracediamondsfear



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage and Discipline, Dominance, F/M, Sex Slave, Submission
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 04:52:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 21,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracediamondsfear/pseuds/gracediamondsfear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Eames takes a vacation with a woman he's never met in waking life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Number 218

There’s a hotel in Marrakech that he goes to a few times a year. It caters to dreamers. Not in that beautiful, metaphysical, true-love-and-roses sense, but those who share dreams, manipulate and control them, or in the case of the forgers, exploit them. If you walked into the Selman Marrakech and asked for the Auction Floor you’d be escorted out, possibly punched, but most certainly made to feel like an idiot who has no idea what they’re talking about. But he knew the words, the correct paperwork, the rooms to go to in order to get to the Auction Floor. He first went to the lounge; filled with crystal chandeliers and sunlight, the furniture upholstered in purple velvet, with beautiful men and women seated here and there chatting and giggling, all of them criminals – forgers or architects, the creative side of dream manipulation – but looking for all the world like a room full of aristocrats. Getting a drink at the bar, he paced in front of the tall windows; looking towards to the door, then at his thick silver watch, then back to the door. His appointment was in fifteen minutes. 

A young woman in an impeccably tailored gray suit, her hair in a braided, coiled bun, appeared in the door way and called out the number 218 then disappeared again. No one looked up, no one moved, no one wanting to draw attention to themselves, to remain discreet, some perhaps to avoid confrontation with former business partners. But after a moment, he put his empty glass on a side table, holding one ice cube in his mouth to chew on as he walked. Nervous energy. He left the room and went down a dark hallway to an elevator that only opened with the insertion of a key card. His read 218. The elevator itself was rather plush, walled with mirrors and gold fixtures, the floor shining with black marble. He caught a glimpse of himself in the wall across from him and frowned at how worn and old he looked, how tired. He’d spent too much time awake, too much time in real life, too much time becoming other people. Finally he came to Marrakech to make sure he didn't lose himself.

The elevator opened into a darker room filled with doors. The woman in the gray suit was at a dark wooden desk, looking down at a computer monitor. He placed the key card down on the desk and crunched on the remains of the ice cube, jingling the change in his pocket, looking down the row of doors. At the end of the room were double doors, leading to a room he’d never seen, never would.

“It’s good to see you again Mr. Eames,” the woman said, and the tiniest smile of recognition crossed over her lips. He’d seen her with her hair down once. With her suit off, with her thigh high stockings rolled down to her ankles, but he didn’t make mention of it, only nodded. “And who are you here to see today, Mr. Eames?”

“Ralia,” he said, looking down the hall, as if he’d see her come out, see her rush through the doors to greet him.

“Ah yes, wonderful. She’s been anxious to see you. Ever since you called and said you’d be stopping in.” The woman clicked her lacquered fingertips over the keyboard, making arrangements. “And how long will you be here today?”

“Four hours,” he said, trying to watch her type. “Three…three days…with her.”

“Yes, Mr. Eames. I know.” She continued clicking for a few silent moments and then pulled a key from the desk. “OK, follow me. You’re in room 64. I’ll get you set up.”

The room was outfitted like a simple bedroom. While she set up the Pasiv, he kicked off his shoes, loosened his tie and made himself comfortable. The bed was lush and comfortable, the low lighting conducive to sleep, the walls thick, soundproof.

“Do you need anything else before we begin, Mr. Eames?” she asked, standing before him with her hands folded in front of her, her eyes cast downward. He wondered if perhaps she’d worked on the Auction Floor. When they’d spent an hour or so together in the “broken elevator” he hadn’t thought to ask.

“No, thank you. I’m ready.”

“Very good, “ she said, untangling the wires and getting down to business. “I’ll be here when you get back. Please remember the rules, Mr. Eames. And have a lovely time.”


	2. Ralia

She’d only been called to the Auction Floor three times since being in Marrakech, and every time she’d be purchased by a Mr. Eames. Of course she had no knowledge of her owner before they met in the dream, just his name and the length of time, and what she was required to create. The dream always belonged to the owner, but the girl was always the architect. It was her job to create pleasure, not only with her body, but the world around them.

She’d been at the hotel for only two weeks when she was called to her first viewing. It was a group of four men looking for European women trained in submission and of a certain age. She wasn’t a teenager, but she was young looking, younger than she actually was, but that was probably due to her small frame and thin limbs, a life on the run kept her lithe.

“Ralia is new to the Pleiades. She isn’t a virgin, but she is a fresh face. From Glasgow, Scotland originally, but she’s certainly seen the world and has been in service to both men and women. Thank you sir,” the voice said, indicating a bid had already been placed.

She sat on a couch upholstered in purple velvet wearing a cream colored satin nightgown, her honey colored hair hung down her back like a thick ribbon, brushed until it reflected bands of light. She was blindfolded, a touch of lipstick her only makeup, and she was barefoot. Around her neck was a thin silver choker set with seven diamonds that looked like a simple necklace. Only it was locked on, and if she got up from the couch and left the room, it would shock her to the point of unconsciousness. She tried it once. Never again. The voice continued to thank the anonymous bidders for their offers until she heard a bell chime three times, indicating the auction was over.

“Thank you. Bidder 218. We will make arrangements for your meeting shortly.”

Annabelle was her caretaker, a woman only slightly older than herself, always dressed professionally in a suit and heels. She came into the room and lifted Ralia by the elbow, guiding her back to her room. In her time at the hotel, Ralia had come to trust her, confide in her, and it helped her to learn the ropes, so to speak.

“Do you know him, 218?”

Annabelle’s stride stuttered a bit and she cleared her throat before continuing on to Ralia’s room. She thought the slave didn’t notice.

“I do. He’s a fine gentleman and a good customer.”

“He’s been here before?”

“Once or twice. But he’s never paid as much as he did tonight.”

“When will I meet him?”

“Next week. Just relax until then. You won’t be called for another Auction until after your time with him.”

She took the blindfold off and gave Ralia a sleeping pill. The girl climbed up into her bed and curled under the covers. She was shaking. Annabelle sat down beside her and stroked her hair, brushing it back behind her ears to soothe her. It had been a long time since they had someone as fresh and inexperienced as Ralia. For a minute the concierge was wracked with guilt, until she remembered the amount of money the girl would have deposited in her account after a night with Mr. Eames, a tour of duty Anna would do for free.

“If I tell you something, you must promise to keep it secret, my Lia. OK?”

Ralia nodded but said nothing; afraid she might start crying.

“He’s very handsome, and a skilled lover,” Annabelle said, whispering in the girl’s ear. “I think you’ll enjoy him.”

“Will he hurt me?”

“Well of course he’ll hurt you!” She said, laughing out loud. “That’s what we’re here for sweetie. Get some sleep. I’ll wake you for your bath in the morning.”

She waited for him in a hotel suite in London. It was ten stories up and the floor to ceiling windows were open with white gauzy curtains billowing in the breeze. The sun was setting, casting the room in amber. She knelt on the floor at the foot of the bed in her cream colored gown, her hair pinned up on top of her head as he requested. She wore the choker and kept her back to the door, resisting the urge to turn and look at Mr. 218 when she heard it open and close. 

He said nothing for a few minutes. She could hear him walking around, taking his coat off, kicking off heavy shoes. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him toss a worn brown leather bag on the bed. And then he was behind her. She felt the heat radiating from his body, the fabric of his wool pants against the skin of her back. His hand ran up the length of her spine, her neck, over her hair. He let out a low purring sound of appreciation. She liked his smell. Spice and leather and wine.

“What a pretty girl. So nice and quiet. A good girl,” he said, and her scalp prickled at the sound of his voice, so buttery and low, the accent comforting and familiar.

“Thank you sir,” she said, but before the words were out of her mouth he’d grabbed a fistful of her hair and snapped her neck backwards so that she was looking up into his eyes.

“I didn’t say you could talk, pretty girl.”

His lips were full, curled into an evil grin. The pain of his hand in her hair brought tears that she dare not let fall, so she closed her eyes to him and he let her go. She fell forward, her forehead on the carpet, bowing in extreme supplication. He stood in front of her, nudging his foot beneath her face, tipping her chin up. She knew enough to kiss his foot before sitting back on her heels and he stroked her hair as a reward.

“Look up at me girl, and stop crying. We all make mistakes darling, I knew you weren’t perfect.”

She looked up at him and took in the full image of the man in front of her. He stood with his legs apart, arms crossed over his chest. Black pants and belt and a black shirt with his silk tie unknotted, hanging free under his collar. She could see the feathered edges of black tattoos licking out from his unbuttoned shirt, a single gold chain around his neck with a hammered gold square charm hanging from it. He was smiling at her, his rosy lips looking so soft and kissable, mesmerizing. He needed a shave, but the scruff suited him along with his short, dark hair, already mussed, an errant lock falling across his forehead. He was a scoundrel after all, a forger. A liar. 

“Your mind is going a mile a minute little girl. Don’t waste your time trying to figure me out. For all you know, this isn’t even me.”

She opened her mouth to answer him, to assure him that she knew it was him…she could feel it, but thought better of such bratty behavior and closed it again. He smiled a wide, toothy grin then, crouching down to her level. 

“A fast learner.” He took her face in his hands and stroked her cheek, brushing his thumb over her lips, massaging the back of her neck. “You don’t speak until I tell you to, do you understand? And when I let you speak, you don’t call me sir. You don’t call me Master or my Lord or any of that tripe. When you address me darling, you call me Mr. Eames.”


	3. Nice and Pink

“You can get up now, darling, on your feet. We don’t want to waste any time,” Mr. Eames said, touching her elbow to pull her up. 

She felt small in front of him in every way, but still she made sure to stand straight, her shoulders back, her feet together, chin up but eyes cast downward. Elegance was valued and he’d paid an outrageous price. Now her previous training was paying off. He took a minute to drink it all in, the smile on his face not unkind, but when she snuck a glance up she could see the scheming behind it. Slipping his hand beneath the thin satin strap of her gown he twisted it around four of his fingers and snapped it with one quick tug, the fabric sliding down to expose her breast, her nipple already hard, dark pink like her lips. Her breasts were full and heavy, too big she’d been told, for a frame like hers, and so it embarrassed her to have them so closely examined like Mr. Eames was doing now. She maintained her composure by biting the inside of her cheek as he teased the hardened bud with his thumb then massaged the whole of her breast with his palm. He was only inches from her, his head bent down so that she could feel his breath over her cheek, see the lashes on his eyelids. She closed her own eyes and drew in a deep breath. The warmth of his touch traveled to her belly, spreading down between her legs. A tiny moan of pleasure escaped her lips when he kissed her temple and he pinched down on her nipple hard, twisting it between two fingers. She bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out and he laughed, his lips against her ear,

“A horny, impatient little slut, hmm? You and I have a lot in common, don’t we, kitten?” He licked at her earlobe, kissed the soft skin of her neck. “But you don’t get to have your fun before me, darling. Those are the rules. Do you understand?”

“Yes Mr. Eames,” she said, her voice a crackling whisper.

“Hmm?” He turned his ear to her mouth and raised his eyebrows. “Speak up girl, do you understand the rules?”

“Yes Mr. Eames,” she repeated.

He nodded in approval and pushed the other strap of her gown down her arm letting it fall to the floor. Naked but for her collar, she stood in front of him with her hands folded behind her back. A breeze through the windows billowed the curtains and raised goosebumps down her arms. He slipped his index finger beneath her collar and pulled her behind him towards the bed, telling her to stand while he sat on the edge.

“Turn around, let me see that pretty ass of yours,” he said, holding her hips. 

She turned and stood with her feet slightly apart, arching her back just a touch to present her backside. Again he ran his hand down the bones of her spine that rippled beneath her skin like a buried sting of pearls. She felt her cheeks flush as he spanked her lightly, just enough to startle her. He sighed and stroked her thighs, only allowing himself a moment between her legs, tickling at the thick thatch of hair but daring not delve deeper. He rubbed her ass cheeks again and spanked them harder. 

“Mmm. Nice and pink,” he said, rubbing his hand over the places he’d just smacked. “It’ll look so pretty all covered in stripes.” Before she had time to react to the thought of it she felt his lips against the top of her thigh, then her ass, the very tip of his tongue tickling her skin. She was lightheaded, warm and grateful for his hands steadying her hips so she didn’t stumble forward. “Do you like being spanked, girl?” He whispered against her skin.

“If you like to spank me, then I love being spanked, Mr. Eames,” she said. 

And she did like being spanked. She liked the spark of searing pain that shot through her like a bolt of energy. Each slap resonated deep in her belly, all of the punishment rolling together to a burning knot of arousal. If he touched her now he’d find her soaking wet, but she knew it wasn’t her time. She was here for his pleasure only. He turned her back to face him and leaned back on his hands to look up at her.

“I can’t wait much longer,” he said. “I want you to undress me.”

“Of course, Mr. Eames.”

Standing between his open legs, Ralia pulled his silk tie free from the collar of his shirt and carefully folded it into thirds before placing it on the chair next to the bed, making sure to bend at the waist and hold her legs slightly apart as she did so. While she unbuttoned the rest of his shirt he reached up to pull the pins from her hair, letting it tumble down her back and over her shoulder. Pushing the shirt down and off of his thick arms she found herself distracted at the sight of him, the muscles in his arms and chest, the tattoos that nearly covered his torso, ornate lettering and swirling black flames, signs and symbols that made sense only to him. Without thinking she leant forward and kissed one of the swirling black lines above his heart, letting her tongue touch the ink as if she could taste it. When he didn’t protest she kept exploring his skin with her mouth, her hands running down the front of his chest, over the muscles of his belly. He tangled his fingers into her hair and groaned, but didn’t tell her to stop, in fact he held her tight against him and she continued to lick and kiss her way down to his navel, dragging her tongue down the dark trail of hair beneath it that lead her to the silver buckle of his belt.

She was on her knees in front of him, his hand still in her hair, and instead of her hands, she pulled the tail of his belt free from its loop with her teeth, feeling his hardened prick straining against the front of his pants as she worked. She was adept at unfastening the buckle and pulling the leather out with one strong snap of her neck and he smiled at her talents, taking the belt from her mouth and laying it beside him on the bed. It was the touch of his skin to her lips that enflamed her. Whether he noticed or not, she’d become ravenous for him; to see his cock, to have it inside her, was now a primal need, and though she proceeded as he asked, meekly unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers, she felt her heart racing, the heat and wetness between her legs growing stronger with each minute. This was Ralia’s secret…she craved giving pleasure even more than receiving it.

He pushed himself deep into her throat, holding fast to the back of her neck, groaning at how easily she opened herself to him, how her small mewling noises reverberated against him while she slid her tongue over his hardened shaft. He pulled her hair back so that she could look him in the eye, and he was surprised to no longer find a frail little girl, but the lust filled eyes of a confident woman, a woman who knew she could put him over the edge in a minute if he would let her. Instead he pulled out of her mouth and pulled her up by her hair so he could kiss her mouth, feel her tongue over his, her warm, wet lips suckling at his own, her hands folded behind her back in the demure posture she’d first shown him. He threw her down onto the bed on her back and covered her mouth and throat with kisses, holding her legs apart as he tongued her navel and the bones of her hips. He’d planned on teasing her for hours, bringing her to the edge and letting her beg, watching her twist and squirm beneath his touch, but when he smelled her, tasted her, dipped his fingers into the silky warmth nestled at her core, he couldn’t wait. Not this time. He flattened himself on top of her, sliding inside slowly, watching her eyes flutter as he opened her. 

“Mr…Mr. Eames…” she stuttered, her fingers digging deep into his shoulders as he bucked his hips so hard against hers he was afraid she’d break. 

He slowed his pace and pulled back to look into her face, to kiss her again, hear her purr against his neck. She smiled and blushed at his eyes boring into hers, searching for something as he thrust into her again and again. She wrapped one hand around the back of his neck, her fingertips tickling the skin just below his hairline and arched up to meet his forward push. 

“I like how you feel inside me Mr. Eames,” she whispered in his ear, her voice husky and deep, her lips still wet from their kiss. 

“Oh…fuck,” he growled as he came inside her, his arms trembling with tension as he held himself up, beads of sweat dotting his brow.

Ralia was sweating too, her breath coming in short gasps, her eyelids heavy, half closed as they both tried to recover. 

“Thank you,” she said, pulling his palm to her lips and kissing it, then his wrist and the back of his hand. “Thank you.”

He pulled out and lay on the bed beside her, still trying to catch his breath, his fingers raking playfully through the tangle of hair between her legs. She instantly tensed beneath his touch, but covered with a nervous laugh as she rolled away.

“Don’t run away from me little girl,” he said, grabbing her wrist. “Lay down with me and rest.” 

She hesitated, knowing it was her job to obey, but also knowing that in a few short moments he’d been able to read her completely, to see who she really was. It wouldn’t take long for him to find her imperfections as well. His grip on her wrist tightened and she acquiesced, curling up beside him with her head on his hot, scratchy chest. He stroked her hair and kissed the part on the top of her head.

“You don’t have very much restraint, do you little kitten?” he said, his voice smooth as caramel again. “That’s ok, I like a girl with a little bit of fire in her belly. What fun is a slave if you never get to punish them?”

She laughed nervously and buried her face in his chest. The sun was going down and he’d told her they were going to dinner. He patted her thigh and stood up, heading for the shower. Ralia remembered what Annabelle told her. Mr. Eames was a skilled and experienced lover. Sooner or later, he’d realize something was wrong.


	4. Second Visit

He paid more at the second auction. A higher bid for more time. Twenty four hours and an extra five thousand brought it up to thirty six. After their first meeting he couldn't shake her image, couldn’t forget her smell, the way she laughed when she let her guard down. He liked making her laugh. It was genuine, from deep in her belly. It was the reality of her laughter that left him unsure of everything else. Maybe with more time he could peel back her layers, something he’d never really concerned himself with before. It was supposed to be sex after all, nothing more. And even then, it was sex in the dreamscape, assuring that there would be no loose ends to haunt either party. 

Annabelle met him at the elevator and set him up in the bed, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead as he settled back and closed his eyes. Eames grabbed her hand before she walked away. He was beginning to drift.

“Does she know it’s me?” He asked.

“I’m not supposed…I’m…”

He wouldn’t let go. He fought to keep his eyes open, focused on hers. She sighed and squeezed his fingers.

“She’s anxious to see you.”

The hotel room was the same. The view was different. The windows were closed up tight to keep out the swirling snow falling from the orange pink sky. They were high up, looking out over a river. She was waiting for him in a heavily beaded gown made of emerald velvet, low cut in the front and back. On her knees with her back to the door, Eames could watch her undetected as she re-pinned her hair, sweeping it up into a twist and securing it with a diamond and emerald comb. A fine silver chain dripped down her back from the ring in her collar, the end of it hidden beneath the hem of her dress at the small of her back. It glinted and curved like a mechanical spine as she settled back into position, head down, hands in her lap. 

He approached in silence, noting how her shoulders tensed at the sound of his footsteps.

“I missed you kitten,” he said, running his fingers down the length of her chain. His hand slipped beneath the fabric of her dress to find the end of the leash – a tiny silver ring resting just above the curve of her ass. Before pulling the chain free he ran his fingers down the cleft of her ass, almost to the warmth between her legs, which she opened obediently although the gown was tight and the seams strained as she tried to accommodate him. With his lips to her ear he pulled on her leash to make her look up at him.

“Did you miss me too?

Already she was trembling and the corner of her mouth twisted up into a half hidden smile.

“I did, Mr. Eames.”

“You should show me how much, darling.”

She stood up and smoothed her gown, presenting herself for inspection. That’s when he saw the mark again. In fact, it seemed larger than last time. It was barely worth mentioning when last he was with her. Now it was more garish, dark. He avoided it for the moment, focusing instead on the beautiful woman undressing him. She ran her hands over his skin with a familiar possessiveness, her smile so small and private that he almost felt guilty to see it. As if in ritual, Ralia kissed each of his tattoos on each of his biceps and the design on his chest before kneeling to take off his belt. 

From this new angle her own tattoo was more prominent, a poorly executed muddle of dark colors between her breasts. A small knife wrapped in red ribbon cutting into a heart. Ugly, unimaginative and unfortunate, it looked like an unattended gunshot wound to the chest. 

“Mr. Eames?”

Her voice brought him back to the moment and he shook his head to clear it. 

“I’m sorry girl, I was distracted,” he said, running his fingers through her hair to loosen it from its comb. She purred and tipped her head back, exposing her throat to him and he looked into her eyes, knowing he was about to cross a line.

“What is that mark?” he asked.

Her face darkened as she pulled away from him. Wind rattled the windows.

“It’s…I…you’re not supposed to ask me Mr. Eames. Please don’t ask me.”

There were tears in her eyes but she stayed on her knees, staring at him, pleading without saying another word. 

And she was right. He’d broken the number one rule. No investigations. The girls of the Pleiades were anonymous lovers, false names, hidden pasts. Their customers weren’t to try and find them outside The Auction Floor and something as innocent as the meaning behind a tattoo would be all an expert like Eames needed to track down everything about her.

“It just doesn’t seem to fit you darling, and it looks like it’s…bigger than it was last time…like it’s growing.” He ran his fingers over the ink while he spoke, as if confirming its existence. 

Ralia stood then and turned away from him but he grabbed the end of the leash before she could get very far. If there was one thing Eames didn’t take to, it was being ignored. He tugged lightly on the chain, just enough to get her attention, then grabbed her arm.

“I think you’re forgetting who’s running the show, kitten,” he said, pulling her close, against his chest. “If I’ve already broken the rules, I might as well make it worth my while, no?”

She was crying openly, not hiding the sobs that shook her shoulders as he held her. He wrapped his own arms around her and nuzzled her neck.

“You don’t have to be afraid to tell me. You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he whispered.

“It isn’t real,” she said. “It only shows up in my subconscious.”

He ran his warm hands down the front of her chest, between her breasts, covering the tattoo with his palm. She cried harder but he held her tight.

“Tell me,” he said.

She closed her hands over his.

“Before I worked here I belonged to someone else. A government…official. He was my first…for everything. I’d kissed boys before, not even men, but he introduced me to everything else. He trained me. But after a year he threw me out, told me I was damaged, not a real woman.”

Eames laughed then and kissed her neck.

“Well, I strongly disagree, but I’m certainly glad he got rid of you.”

“But he was right. I’m damaged,” she repeated. “This mark. It reminds me of what he told me, how I’m flawed. How it scars me. It’s only a tattoo when I’m dreaming.” She pulled his fingers up to her lips and kissed them, tipping her hips back against his, resuming the role of submissive seductress. “But my problems are immaterial here Mr. Eames,” she said. She felt a tingle in her scalp when she turned to look into his eyes. “Your pleasure is all that matters.”

When she tried to sink back to her knees he took her by the arm and pulled her back to her feet and held her face in his hands so that she couldn’t turn away.

“I’m here for another 35 hours, darling. So you finish your story and then worry about my pleasure. Tell me why you think you’re…”

“I can’t come.”

She looked him right in the eye when she said it. As if daring him not to react. 

“I see.” 

He was angry with himself for not being able to detect her faking the last time. That was why her laugh, so deep and real had startled him. There was a distinct link, he found, between the way a woman laughed and the way she climaxed. There were similarities in the way their faces flushed, how they caught their breath, the way they sighed when recovering their composure. Ralia had been different. Too different. He smiled at her.

“He told you that,” he said. “After a year. Did you like him? Did you love him?”

“No. I’m grateful for everything he gave me. Everything he taught me. But I didn’t love him.”

“He lied to you.”

“No,” she said, dropping her gaze. “I’ve never…had an orgasm. Not with a man, not by myself.”

Eames kissed her, soft on her mouth, his tongue sneaking in over hers, his hands still on her face. She kissed him back eagerly and he pulled away.

“He lied to you sweetheart. And I’ll prove it. If it takes every pound I have, I’ll prove it. Take that dress off and go lay down kitten. I never back down from a challenge.”


	5. Blinded

Annabelle drew her a bath when her session was over. She could tell the girl was shaken, and Mr. Eames had left his room without even giving Anna her customary wink and kiss on the cheek.

The tub was deep and fragrant, in a suite far from the corridor of rooms reserved for the girls of The Pleiades. She gave Ralia a kiss on the forehead and turned on the stereo system. Listening to opera was how she liked to unwind. They were all allowed their little treats, their favorite foods, things to wear. Tonight she'd asked to hear Mozart, "The Abduction From The Seraglio". Only a few measures in, she felt her muscles begin to soften and finally release. The tension she'd been holding in her neck and back had translated into soreness and exhaustion. The music was her massage.

She ducked her head beneath the surface, slicking her hair back away from her face. There would be another Pleiades auction in a week and he told her he'd come back for her, no matter what the cost. He promised her. She smiled then thinking of his lips, the scruff on his cheeks, the way he worked so hard to appear icy and dangerous, but she knew it was a facade. After all, he was a forger. This was just a skin he'd made for himself, an armor. It was his voice that gave it away. His self deprecation, sarcasm; his biting humor all carried sadness in their wake, loneliness, restlessness. Her arms rippled with goosebumps as she remembered the way he said her name.

Once she'd laid down like he asked he just stood at the foot of the bed and stared for a moment - thinking, planning. After a second he nodded to himself and reached up to pull at the white lace panties she'd worn for him. He slipped them down over her hips and flung them over his shoulder with a crooked grin. She couldn't help but laugh at how smug he looked, how dramatic he was... _bombastic_ was a word her mother used to use to describe people whose personalities were too big for her liking. Mr. Eames was bombastic. He kicked off his shoes and slipped off his belt, dragging the leather tail down between her breasts and letting it tickle between her legs before he tossed it aside. Then he sat down beside her, propped up on one elbow, his black wool dress pants looking a bit silly with his bare feet, the little dark hairs on his big toes. He smiled and took off his thick silver watch, letting it fall to the ground like a used tissue.

"You watch too much," he said, fishing through his pile of clothes and pulling out his silk tie. Her heart fluttered. She wasn't allowed any rules, any limits. She wasn't allowed to protest, but just the sight of it in his hands made her mouth go dry. "Always observing others, watching for signs and signals so you know what you should do next."

"That's my j-job Mr. Eames," she stuttered, shrinking away from him just a bit.

If he noticed he said nothing, only put the tie over her eyes and tied it tight around the back of her head.

"Not tonight," he said, giving her one small kiss on the lips before leaving her in the darkness.

The weight on the bed shifted and she knew he wasn't beside her anymore. This was dangerous territory for a dreamer to incapacitate their architect, but she knew they weren't leaving the room, so it wasn't a good enough excuse for her to use.

"Are y-you still here Mr. Eames?" She whispered after only a minute. Her pulse pounded in her ears and she felt the ache of nausea at the base of her jaw. It seemed like hours before he answered her, his lips against her ear.

"Shhhh, just relax and be a good girl for Mr. Eames."

"I...I don't like..."

"I don't care. I want you to lay still. And don't say another word unless I ask you to."

His fingers fluttered over the tops of her thighs and she opened her legs. He pulled away.

"No no you naughty girl," he said, his words a warm stream of air over her cheek. "You're in such a hurry darling," he whispered to her, the tips of his fingers stroking her belly, the soft skin beneath her breasts. "Don't you worry. I'll fuck that wet little pussy before too long."

She sucked her breath in through her teeth, unable to focus how he wanted her to, how she wanted to. She wanted to please him, to learn from him. She wanted him to prove her wrong, to make her scream with immeasurable passion. She wanted to be wrong. As he teased her nipples to attention she told herself that it was only a dream, that he would take it off if she behaved, if she performed, if she relaxed. Still, she started to feel as if she were on a roundabout going too fast, unable to draw in enough air. It was only a dream. It was only a dream.

"Ralia?"

She felt sweat on her forehead and the back of her neck. Mr. Eames put his hand to her cheek and drew it away just as quick. He pulled the blindfold from her eyes and she burst into tears, jumping out of the bed. He looked at her like she was a stranger, confused, maybe a bit afraid that she'd gone off the rails.

"I'm so sorry Mr. Eames. Mr. Eames you can do anything. I know that you're in charge. I'm here for your pleasure Sir...Mr. Eames, but please don't blindfold me. You can beat me, you can whip me, you can tie me up and gag me, I don't care but please no more blindfolds. I'm so sorry Mr. Eames. Don't go away. Please don't leave." She made her way over to him and knelt at his feet while he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her, shaking his head. She held onto his thighs, her fingers digging into the thick muscles of his legs as she begged. "I just can't. It's the one thing...I just can't do it. Please Mr. Eames...please." She couldn't say anymore, not anything that made sense. Her heart felt as if it would explode if she kept talking. So instead she cried, her forehead on his knees, her whole body shuddering with sobs. After a moment he stroked her hair. She was instantly stilled, calm.

"Ralia, don't cry. Please don't cry. Look at me. Don't be afraid. Look," he said, tipping her chin up to look at him. He wiped the tears from her cheeks and looked as if he might cry himself. "Why in the world didn't you say something to me, darling?"

"I'm...I'm not allowed. You can do what you want with me Mr. Eames. I have no limits. But I thought you'd...I thought I could..." He pulled her up to sit on his lap and kissed both of her eyelids before letting her rest her head against his chest. He stroked her hair and they looked out the window where the snow had stopped, the sky black and full of stars.

"I have so many things I want to do to you girl, telling me I can't use a blindfold isn't going to set me back very much," he said.

She smiled to herself and heard him laugh. She looked up and kissed him, holding his face in her hands, her thumb stroking his bottom lip.

"But you'll have to do something for me then," he said, his hand rubbing the small of her back to soothe her. "You have to tell me why."

"I just...I..." it was so simple but she didn't know how to say it. "When the blindfold is on...I can't see you. I can't...I can't bear not being able to see." He nodded and pulled her over to the bed so they could lay together, this time his head in her lap while she ran her fingers through his hair. "I like being able to see," she repeated.

She was sure he was going to leave. There was always a way out...for the owners. Their room was on a high enough floor that he could wake himself if he jumped and in the bedside table was a silver plated gun studded with seven diamonds. The Emergency Exit. But instead he pulled her close and drew the thick duvet up over both of them, switching off the light.

The room was flooded with blue moonlight, the wool of his pants scratching against her legs as they lay intertwined. She stared at the ceiling, the ornate crystal chandelier that hung over the sitting area, it sparkled like ice.

"W-would you like me to...serve you, Mr. Eames?" she said after a while.

"No," he answered, the word long and drawn out. He reached down between her legs and stroked her gently. "I'm hungry. I want you to order me a glass full of ice and a bowl of oranges." He kissed her shoulder and bit it playfully, slapping her ass before getting out of bed. "I'm getting in the shower and I want those things here when I get back girl. I'm not giving up yet."


	6. Room Service

She picked up the phone to call room service wondering what sort of projection would bring up their order. Naturally a woman’s voice answered, sultry and with a French accent.

“How can I help you?”

Before she could get the words out Mr. Eames was behind her, a towel slung around his hips, pulling the phone from her hand. He held one finger up to his pursed lips indicating she should be quiet. And then he was purring a string of French words into the phone. He covered the receiver and whispered to Ralia,

"I wanted to add something to my order."

Again he spoke to the woman on the phone in French, the words pouring from his mouth like warm syrup.  He had one eyebrow up in a high arch, holding Ralia's gaze with a mischievous smile.  When he hung up the phone he took her by the wrist and pulled her toward the bathroom where the shower had already filled the room with steam.

"I was lonely," he said, pulling her in under the warm water.

She held his face and kissed him without permission but he didn't stop her.  The water ran over their open lips and hung like jewels from the ends of his eyelashes.  He licked her wet skin then kissed her neck, pushing her against the wall, pinnng her wrists above her head while pressing his body against hers.

"I wonder how long we have until room service gets here?" He whispered while nibbling at her ear.

She smiled, her skin prickly with goosebumps.  Just the sight of his tanned, inked skin beneath the showerhead was enough to make her wet.  She squeezed her thighs together as if she could hide it from him then sunk to her knees.

"I think we have enough time for me to finally show you how much I've missed you Mr. Eames."

"Oh good," he said, brushing her hair back from her face. "I'm anxious to find out."

 

Afterward they sat on the couch in thick white robes, Mr. Eames holding a cigarette between his teeth trying to explain how to play single deck Baccarat, but she was too engrossed with watching his hands while he dealt the cards, his thick fingers deft and fluttering.  When he spoke about gambling his face lit up and he became almost childlike in his enthusiasm.

"With the draw of the final card, your fortunes can change!  The two of clubs could make you twenty thousand pounds!

"Or you could not gamble in the first place and never lose twenty thousand pounds to begin with."

He was clearly mystified at her philosophy.

"Where's the danger in that, darling?

 

The French girl showed up a few minutes later, a perfect hourglass in a tight black dress and high heels. She pushed a cart draped in white linen through the door, presenting two covered silver trays.  Ralia knew better than to lift the lids, much less say anything to the woman, so she sat on the edge of the bed waiting for instructions.  Mr. Eames thanked the girl and ushered her from the room.  On his way back into the bathroom he yelled,

"Take your robe off kitten!" over his shoulder.

When he came out he was dressed in black satin pajamas and carrying two thick white towels.  He spread them out on the bed and told her to lay on them.

"Alright then, no blindfolds pet, but I'm going to make you focus on that sweet little cunt if it kills me."

He lifted the lid on the first tray to reveal a beautiful old fashioned shaving kit; a brush and bowl, a cake of snowy white soap and a gleaming silver straight razor that he flicked open and dragged over her arm.  The metal was cool and smooth and she shivered.  As he prepared the soap he set the open razor on her thigh.

"I'm not much into blood, darling.  There are arguments to be made, I guess, for the primal erotic nature of its life giving properties, but it also leaves stains. And stains, I cannot bear."

Ralia was smiling.  She liked listening to him ramble, watching him perform his little ritual.  Already she felt a flutter low in her belly thinking of him drawing the blade between her legs.

"So in order to avoid it, you need to lay still, don't you little girl?"

"Yes, Mr. Eames."

"You need to relax, and stay open, so to speak," he said with a grin.  Propping her slightly bent knees up with pillows, he took the razor and the brush and settled down between her legs to work.  First he kissed her waiting pussy gently, one little closed lipped kiss just above her clit, making her giggle. "Lay still squirmy girl," he said, holding her down with one hand on her stomach.  He dragged his tongue down between the slick wet lips and laughed himself.   "Already a slippery kipper.  I'm winning this bet for sure."

He covered her with the warm, fragrant lather and she closed her eyes willingly, basking in the warm tingling waves he was triggering.  But he wasn't satisfied to let her just lay there.

"Now tell me, Ralia," he said, touching the cold blade to her skin. "How did you first know you liked being _on the bottom_?" He skimmed the razor downward and she shivered as the cool air touched the newly exposed flesh.  

"I'm...I'm not really sure."

"Yes you are," he said with another pull of the razor.  "Tell me about when you first felt that glorious warm flush of energy 'down there'."  He blew a stream of air over her shorn skin.  She tensed and he pinched her clit, hard.  She yelped.  "Answer me, girl."

"At the...at the beauty shop."

"Mmmhm. Go on."

She threw one of her forearms across her forehead and took a deep breath.  She wanted to beg him to lick her again, to tongue fuck her until she couldn't breathe, but he just wanted her to talk.

"I was twelve or so.  My mother and the hairdresser stood behind me as I sat in the chair and they talked about what to do with my hair.  The stylist, a man, he...he kept running his fingers through my hair but never once looked me in the eye, never asked my opinion.  I thought to myself, 'it's like I'm just a dog being petted.  I'm just here for him to play with.'"

"I see,"

"But then he gathered all of my hair into a ponytail and yanked on it to make me look up.  Not hard.  It was...playful.  But as soon as he did it I felt every muscle in my pussy clench at once.  Every nerve between my legs was on fire.  I may have gasped out loud."

"How naughty," he said, teasing her with short flicks of the blade on the tenderist skin of her labia. "And did you start getting yourself off after that _playful tug_?"

"I...I told you I can't.  I've played with myself, but my body just...it can't." She squirmed then, swiveling her hips, and he held tight to her thighs as a warning.

"Sure it can, kitten," he said, his face so close she could feel his words as warm puffs of air. "Your body was working on it that day at the beauty shop."

"I used to read stories about harems, about girls whisked away and ravished, locked away in dungeons, tied to the bedposts.  It terrified the other girls.  But to me it was...it was spine tingling." Mr. Eames cleaned her with a warm, wet towel. "But it's not right to think that way, to want to be owned, to be an object of desire.  Women aren't supposed to do that."

He poured a few drops of warm oil on her bare mons and massaged it in, letting his fingers wander and stroke, dipping inside for a moment then pulling back.

"I thought women were supposed to do whatever they wanted?"

He slid up to lay beside her, his hand still between her legs.  She looked him in the eyes and was surprised to find him staring back, intent, curious.

"I was punished for what I wanted.  I ended up in a harem for real and...and it wasn't at all what I imagined."

"Things rarely are, darling, but it wasn't a punishment for being submissive.  It was just shit luck if you ask me."

 

She pushed her hips against his hand and leaned in to kiss him, but he pulled away laughing.

"My goodness!  Imagine how impatient you'll be when you finally get your happy ending! We'll never get a moment's rest!"

The both fell silent for a moment and she looked away from him.  His suggestion of some kind of future together hung between them.

"Mr. Eames..."

He got out of the bed then clearing his throat, and lifted the lid on the second silver tray.  It held a silver bowl of segmented oranges on a bed of ice, glistening like jewels.  He picked up a piece and sucked it between his lips, the juice fragrant enough that she could smell it from the bed.  His lips shined, a drop of juice hanging for him to catch with the tip of his tongue.  He licked his fingertips clean and picked up another piece of the fruit.

"I'm hungry, girl," he said, bringing the bowl over to the bedside table. "Care to share an orange with me?"

 

 

 


	7. Oranges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explicit sex warning, if that sort of thing bothers you.

He stripped down and brought the bowl over to the bedside, eating the last bite of the first piece as he sat down next to her. Putting a smaller segment between his teeth he leaned over to kiss her, offering her the fruit. Ralia closed her lips over his and curled her tongue around the orange, pulling it into her own mouth. He licked the juice from her lips and caught the drop that ran down to the hollow of her throat.

"More?" he asked, unsure of how long he could prolong this "lesson" given his ache to screw her blind since he walked in the door.

If he wanted her to learn patience, to savor every moment of their sex, then he had to lead by example. There was something to be said, however, for bending a woman in black stilettos over the back of her couch and banging her senseless before her husband got home. Ralia wasn't that type of woman though, and Eames realized with a bit of shock that he didn't want her to be.

He grabbed a fat section of orange and pinched it between his fingers, letting the juice run into her open mouth and over her lips and throat. Holding it between his lips again he squeezed every bit out of it, leaving trails of glistening drops on her breasts, her stiff, rosy nipples, even the tattoo she hated. She moaned with impatience as he bent to kiss and lick away the droplets, sucking her skin, nibbling at it, swirling his expert tongue around each erect nipple, making her gasp when he bit into one of them. She was trembling.

Eames slid down between her thighs, wrapping his arms around the backs of her knees to hold her legs apart. Her naked pussy, deep pink, shining with her own juices, tempted him as she tried to push herself against his mouth.

"No, not yet. I need another piece of orange I think," he said, kissing the inside of her thigh. Ralia reached over to the silver bowl and held out a piece for him. "Well that's a boring presentation, kitten." He slipped one finger between her slick pink labia. "I think I want it here."

He took her hand and guided it between her own legs, urging her to slip the cold fruit inside. She whined, mewled. Her glorious agony was making him harder. Once the orange was in place she pulled her hand away, but he pulled two fingers back.

"Hold it there for me girl. Keep your fingers nestled deep in that tight little twat."

He licked over the outline of the V her fingers made, sucking the tips of each finger deep into his mouth, teasing her, keeping away from what she really wanted. Finally he pulled the orange free with his tongue, sweet and musky, and quickly swallowed it so he could get back to his writhing pet. Without asking she'd begun fucking herself with her fingers, pumping them in and out, fed up with the frustration he'd forced on her. He smiled watching her face as her hips bucked against her own hand, her cheeks flushed pink, her mouth open, eyes closed. It was a sight to behold, but still, he wanted to be the one to make her come the first time.

He went up on his knees, still watching her work herself into a frenzy, two fingers then three. He took her hand and helped her, slipping his own finger in to massage her clit. She very nearly screamed. It was too much, too soon. But he knew she was close, close to this ecstasy she didn't think she was capable of. So he pulled her hand away and entered her slowly, then pulled her up to sit on him, her legs wrapped around his waist. She needed no more instruction, rolling her hips, thrusting against him, her arms around his neck, her tongue deep in his mouth nearly mimicking the way he pushed up into her. Already he could feel the muscles inside her begin their tiny contractions but he wanted it to last. She was so warm and slick, her skin so soft and smooth against his rough, scarred flesh. She tasted good, she smelled good, her sounds, her voice made him want to fuck her forever.

He pulled her off of him and flipped her onto her stomach, guiding her up on her knees. He pushed into her easily, reaching around to strum her sensitive clit while she thrust back against him.

"Please. Please Mr. Eames," she said, breathless. "Please let me come. Please. I can't...I..."

"Oh! I thought you couldn't come, girl? Or did you lie to me?" He asked, fucking her harder, deeper, feeling her quivering, her clit a hard little bead beneath his fingertip.

"You can make me...you can make me come. Please..."

"That's right girl, Mr. Eames can make you come. No one else, right girl?"

"Y--yes. Just you Mr. Eames. Please."

He knew it would take one more thing, one missing detail, so he held her steady with one hand on her back and with the other, gathered all of her hair into a pony tail and yanked it, pulling her head back. That's when it started. She was silent, but the muscles clenched tight around his prick. He leaned forward and growled in her ear, close to his own climax,

"You're just like a dog, little girl. You're just here for me to play with."

The sound of her first orgasm triggered his own. She couldn't hold herself up, her whole body slick with sweat and goosebumps. And the sound, he knew it was real by the sound of her low groaning cry. So deep and organic it was almost a wail of agony, but he knew the difference. He came hard, feeling instantly lightheaded, exhausted, drained. He collapsed across her back and they both gasped for breath. After a minute he could feel her trembling again. Rolling off of her, he turned to hold her in his arms and found her crying.

"What's this, darling?" He asked, kissing both of her cheeks, then her nose, her eyelid.

"Thank you," she said, kissing his chest. "Thank you for that. Thank you for helping me find it." She pulled herself up and kissed his mouth, her fingers running through his wet hair.

Outside, the sky was purple gray with the approaching dawn. It wasn't until he looked down at her tattoo that he remembered that none of it was real. That was what he wanted when he joined this club, when he placed his bids. He didn't want any attachments and he hated reality. He didn't want disease or pregnancy or women calling and wondering where he was. He'd wanted a submissive because he liked how pretty they looked on their knees.  He liked calling the shots, was afraid when he couldn't. A quiet girl who could suck dick and didn't mind anal was a dream come true. A girl who would treat him like a king, who would curl up at his feet and look pretty while he played poker couldn't be equalled.  And what made it worth the thousands of pounds he threw down to get it was that after he was done with them, they left.  Isn't that what they always say?  You're not paying for the sex, you're paying for them to leave.

Yet here was Ralia half asleep with her head on his chest and one leg thrown over his to keep them connected and he was content.  He still had nearly twenty four hours with her.  They would fuck again, (and again), of that he was sure.  But what he really wanted was to take her outside.  To walk with her along the river she'd created, to watch her eat gelato, to teach her how to gamble.  He kissed the top of her head and she purred, snuggling up closer to him.

"You're welcome darling, although a tip is customary."

Her laugh made him smile.  And that's when he knew that what he really wanted more than anything was to see her without the tattoo.


	8. The Fading Scar

He told her ahead of time that his third visit would present her with personal challenges.

“No more of this weepy delicate flower routine, taking advantage of my obvious nurturing abilities,” he told her during their telephone meeting. She laughed and told him she understood.

Because she was the architect, or in the terms of The Pleiades, The Designer, it was customary for the winning bidder to provide the details of what he wanted either in writing or over the phone. Ralia conducted all of her business over the phone. She’d been sleeping, indulging in “organic dreaming” when Mr. Eames called.

“We’re going to go gambling,” he said. “Poker, roulette…what do you like?”

“Whatever you like Mr Eames,” she said, smiling to herself.

“What a good girl you are. I’ll see you on Thursday then, kitten.”

****  
 _“Do you need anything else before we begin, Mr. Eames?” she asked, standing before him with her hands folded in front of her, her eyes cast downward. He wondered if perhaps she’d worked on the Auction Floor. When they’d spent an hour or so together in the “broken elevator” he hadn’t thought to ask._  
 _“No, thank you. I’m ready.”_  
 _“Very good, “ she said, untangling the wires and getting down to business. “I’ll be here when you get back. Please remember the rules, Mr. Eames. And have a lovely time.”_  
****

She created a penthouse on the top floor of a casino; lavish, if slightly out of date, the building surrounded by other towering hotels encrusted with blinking, multicolored neon. Eames opened the door and found Ralia on all fours in a white bra and panties with white thigh high stockings and heels – just as he asked. As usual, her hair was pinned into a messy knot on top of her head and the silver leash ran down the length of her spine, the end of it dangling between her legs as she crawled towards him. Eames, on the other hand, was dressed for an evening out, all in black with a long wool coat and a steel grey scarf. He shook his head at her while pulling off his black leather gloves.

“Look at this lazy little girl,” he said, circling her while she presented herself for inspection. “I told you we were going out tonight and you don’t even get dressed?”

Without a word of warning he smacked her ass hard with his glove, more surprising than painful. He slapped the leather across her thighs again, making sure to catch the delicate skin between her legs, smiling at the sound of her whining, high pitched yelp.

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry Mr. Eames,”

“Oh darling, I don’t believe you,” he said, crouching down in front of her, holding her face still so she could look into his eyes. She’d missed them, the flecks of gold around the edges of his irises, the way they crinkled at the corners when he had some wicked thought, his eyelashes... “I think you need to be punished.”

“Yes Mr. Eames. I’m so sorry Mr. Eames.”

He stood up then and took off his coat, then his belt, folding it in half and laying it over the black leather club chair in the middle of the room.

“Oh my, little girl, we’re going to have some fun tonight.”

 

A few hours later, they were in the back of a black limousine, Mr. Eames freshly showered and back in his black suit and coat and Ralia beside him in a beautiful dress of dark blue satin, studded here and there with tiny jewels that flashed in the light. It reminded him of the night sky, stars behind passing clouds. She wore thigh high stockings and modest heels, her face devastatingly beautiful with just a touch of makeup to show off her bright blue eyes, but the low cut front of the dress revealed her tattoo, no larger than last time, but just as garish. She’d nearly forgotten it was there until they’d been riding for a while and Eames cleared his throat.

“Why is that still there?” He asked. The tone in his voice was accusatory…almost frightening. She could suddenly see that he wasn’t someone to reckon with when he was angry.

“I told you Mr. Eames, it’s a scar. It will always be there.”

“You told me it was an emotional scar. That it was from what your owner told you. Since I proved it wrong it should disappear, no?”

“Even after you’ve healed a broken leg there’s a scar left on the bone,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Besides, I told you that it’s not even really there. Maybe someday it will go away.  Maybe the more I...learn from you it will fade."

She smoothed out her dress and twisted her collar so that it was flat against her throat, her leash looped twice around her neck. In her tiny silver handbag were the things Mr. Eames had asked her to bring on their “date" -- a small egg shaped remote control vibrator, a hairbrush and her blood red lipstick. She’d also slipped the small silver pistol into her purse, as she was instructed to have it with her at all times. They were riding along a desolate road, long straightaways and miles of s curves.  The driver, a tall, bald, American projection, was skilled at keeping the trip smooth, although she wondered when they’d get to the casino like he’d promised.  Ever since he'd noticed the tattoo, Mr. Eames had stopped talking, stopped teasing her, stopped running his finger up and down her thigh.

As much as she enjoyed an adventure and was curious to see what he had planned, part of her wished they could have stayed in for the evening.  It had been nearly a month since she'd seen him and even though he was simply a job, she'd missed him; his face, his voice, his tiny mannerisms that he thought went unnoticed.  And now that he was back she wanted his focus all to herself, not on silly bets with chips and cards, things he could do in waking life.  This was only their third meeting and already they'd developed a sort of routine when they were together, acting and reacting instinctually as if their relationship were well practiced.  And even though her collar was tight on her neck and she greeted him on her knees, the two of them formed a well fitted unit that made her feel comfortable, safe and free.  So the tension between them now made her ill, like motion sickness, too warm and off kilter.  Perhaps he noticed her discomfort because he pulled her over and massaged the back of her neck with one hand, a soothing gesture he used whenever they were happy being quiet together, like stroking a contented cat.  She curled herself into the crook of his arm and rested her hand on the inside of his thigh.  He took a deep breath.

“I want to see you without the tattoo,” he said. “I want to see who you really are.”

She sat up straight.  A tiny pulse of pain began to beat behind her eye.  Nothing good, nothing safe ever lasted.

“I’m sorry Mr. Eames, but it isn’t possible. I’m sure you’re familiar with the rules in this regard.”

He leaned over and kissed her, hard, holding her face in his hands, searching her eyes for some sort of understanding, for some acquiescence…but they were empty. She blinked and looked away from him.

"Are we almost there?"

"Look at me," he said, "I told you, I want to see who you really are," he repeated, still holding her close. 

"You don't," she finally said.  "You don't understand.  Here I'm your Little Lia.  I'm the girl you want. I promise you that you'll be much happier visiting me here."

"I'm not. I thought I would be, but now I want to hold you and touch you and be with you in real life. I don't want to spend all of my money seeing you in my sleep, thowing my life savings away on something that isn't even real!" He paused then, noticing the anguish in her eyes, the way they'd widened, how she was pressed against the door of the car, shrinking away from him. She'd mistaken his frustration for anger at her. He pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head but she remained on guard, her muscles tense, her breathing quick, shallow. "I want to sleep in the same bed with you, Ralia, not hooked up to you by wires. I know people who have lost themselves.  I've seen people unable to live in the real world because everything they love is in their dreams."

"Love?" She very nearly laughed. "Don't say that.  Don't say that you love me.  I'm just a hooker, Mr. Eames. A prostitute. I used to be a sex slave," she said, feeling him wince when she spat out the words. "There's nothing more to me to discover in real life except my flaws. In my dreams I don't forget to shave my legs. I'm not too busy to spend three days in bed with you.  I don't have to do laundry or get a job to pay for an apartment.  In the subconcious we can live our fantasy life. Real life is called 'harsh reality' for a reason."

"I don't give a fuck about your shaved legs, darling, or your imperfections or paying the electric bill or whatever the hell else you're worried about.  You can't tell me that you like doing this, that you like the life you have now.  I can take care of you Lia.  I want to wake up and see that you're still beside me."

Ralia broke out of his arms and leaned forward.

"Stop the car. Pull over!"

"Lia..."

As soon as the driver rolled to a stop she opened the door and jumped out immediately encountering groups of projections, casino patrons converging on the source of tension.  Eames followed her pushing the guardians of his mind aside to keep her in his field of vision.  He was a man prone to bursts of anger and violence, letting his emotions take over and acting on passion without thinking of the consequence.  His projections would be no different.  As long as they were unsettled, she was unsafe.

"Lia please.  STOP. STOP running away from me." He grabbed her by the elbow and spun her around. She stumbled on her heels, falling against his chest, but quickly righted herself and pushed away from him. "I'm sorry. Are you...are you hurt?"

"Why are you doing this? Why are you ruining this?" She said, the pain in her ankle unleashing the tears she'd been trying to hold back. "It was perfect.  We were perfect.  Can't we just go inside the casino and you can teach me roulette and we can drink wine that's too expensive and we can fuck ourselves silly for the next three days.  What more do you want?  What can I give you there that I can't give you here?"

"What does your job give you that I can't?  Is that what you're afraid of? Of losing your job?" They were surrounded by projections staring her down.  He did all he could to remain calm, to keep a smile on his face, to speak softly, but they were closing in. "Whatever it is," he said, pushing a stray lock of her hair behind her ear, "I can take care of it.  I can take care of you.  I want to try.  Maybe it isn't love, not yet. I have no idea what it is.  Just once, Ralia.  Just once let me see you as you really are."

She was crying openly then, her eyes like wet crystal.  She was shaking.

"Mr. Eames, if you come looking for me...if you come find me in real life, I will never see you again.  Do you understand that?  Is that what you want?"

"Of course not.  Why would that be?"

He didn't see that she'd opened her handbag, that her hand was shaking because she'd never fired a gun before.  

"You say that you love me, or that you want to love me," she said. "If you do, then forget about trying to find me."

They were close enough together than she could close her eyes when she pulled the trigger, so she wouldn't have to see him hurt. 


	9. The Pleiades

He woke up with a searing pain in his chest. It quickly dissipated but he sat for a moment, clutching at his shirt, the image of her face as she pulled the trigger stuck in his mind. Beneath the damp fabric his heart was racing. He wasn't supposed to be awake for another three and a half hours and the sedation had left him fuzzy, but he knew what he needed to do. Pulling the cannula from his arm, he peeked outside the bedroom to find the corridor empty, no sign of Annabelle at the front desk. To his right were the double doors where he assumed the Pleiades slept. He could hear something behind the doors, muffled voices, a laugh, activity...real life. Before he could pull them open Annabelle was standing behind him, as if materializing out of thin air.

"You seem to have gotten yourself turned around Mr. Eames," she said, her lips curved into a calm but knowing smile. "And you weren't even supposed to be awake for some time. Is there anything wrong?"

"Anna, I need to get back there. She's back there, isn't she? I need to see her." He stepped towards the doors again but she slipped in front of him, her hands folded, still smiling. Eames was an expert though; at body language, reading people, and he could see the tiniest hints of stress in the corners of her eyes, the squelched panic in the tension of her mouth. She wasn't as controlled as she appeared.

"I'm afraid that's impossible Mr. Eames, and you know that. You knew it when you signed your contract with The Auction."

"Why? Why can't I see her? What are you afraid of? That I'll steal her away? That you'll lose a precious income stream?" He made sure to stand close, to invade her personal bubble, to get her to crack.

"No, there's no danger of her leaving with you Mr. Eames," she said, a hint of condescension in her words. "She doesn't want to die."

He took a step back from her then, a bit sick to his stomach. When he spoke again his voice was low, scarcely a whisper.

"She's here against her will?"

"No, Mr. Eames. Tell me, do you know the story of The Pleiades?"

"They're a constellation. Stars."

"Not always. They were sisters, turned into stars by their father who flung them into the sky to protect them."

He still didn't understand. "Protect them from what?"

"From Orion...the Hunter. You see, Ralia has a price on her head. We offered her a position here in exchange for protection. She hasn't left this building in months although she only recently came up for Auction. We wanted to make sure the trail ran cold. I assure you that in here she's very safe.  If you truly cared about her, that would be of first importance."

"Her owner. He didn't throw her out, she ran away."

Annabelle nodded. "After they fought. He was abusive to her, beyond the scope of her position.  She attacked him as he slept and it got...ugly.  She was badly hurt, but made an escape.  Through other people in the network she found us."

"Whoever he is, I can protect her from him.  I can make her into someone else.  It's what I do.  I'll take her home to Clapham."

"You sound like a knight in shining armor.  You're also a thief, I understand.  I'd be a fool if I didn't think that perhaps you're interested in turning her out yourself and taking a profit," she said, raising an eyebrow.

Eames grabbed her arm above the elbow and pulled her close to hiss in her ear.

"Take it back.  You watch your mouth or I'll go find Evan and tell him how disrespectful you are to Auction members you little bitch."

At the mention of her boss, the Auction founder, Anna's face paled, all bravado gone, the tables entirely turned.  He let go of her and both of them composed themselves, both a bit less stilted than before.

"The minute she steps out of here, he'll find her.  We know who he is, we track him, and he has limitless resources and contacts.  Would you risk her life just to satisfy your curiosity?"

"Anna, let me in there.  I just want to see her.  What do I have to do to get back there?  What do I have to give you to let me back there?"

"Once you see her, once you touch her for real, you won't want to leave her here, and that would put both of you in the crosshairs," she whispered, putting a small hand on his arm. He saw sadness in her eyes now, sympathy. "Just go home, go home and forget her.  You can't possibly believe she's the love of your life after three visits.  It's a crush...a...curiosity.  It will pass."

"No. No it won't.  I don't know if it's love either, but I know there's some reason everyone is hiding her from me, why she lied to me, why you're so bloody scared to let me see her.  I'm going to get back there.  You can help me, and it can go smoothly, or I can kick the doors open and make it a big mess of a deal.  Which do you think you'd prefer, darling?"

They were quiet for a moment and he could tell that she was thinking.  Her brow was furrowed, she chewed on her lower lip.  She was wavering on the edge of giving in.  He had to make one last push, so he spoke in his smoothest, most convincing tone, warm and familiar, holding her gaze with his own, reminding her of the short time they'd spent together a long time ago.

"Anna, you're right.  I'm a thief, a con, a shadow.  I can slip in and slip out in less than half an hour.  Tell me where she is and I won't speak to another soul, won't even look.  You have my word.  No one but you and I will know."

"You're underestimating the power of seeing her in person.  You won't leave her here.  If you go in there Mr. Eames, you have to take her.  Take her with you now and never come back to Marrakech.  She wears a collar with a tracking chip, a gps that Evan monitors, except for when he takes his afternoon swim.  That's in an hour and a half.  I'll deactivate her collar and you'll have forty five minutes to get her out of here and as far away as you can go.  Change her...dye her hair, cover her in a burqa.  Just don't stay in town very long.  Go back to your room.  I'll find you."

The door rattled and both of them heard a rustling, then silence.

"Thank you Anna," he said, kissing her on both cheeks. "Thank you."

Ralia had been sitting on the other side of the double doors listening to their every word.  Even when Mr. Eames whispered she could hear him declare his intentions as plain as day.  An hour and a half.  She wiped the tears from her eyes and stumbled back down the hallway, trying to find a place to hide. 


	10. Behind The Double Doors

Eames sat on the edge of the bed, chewing at the cuticles of his thumbs, fidgeting with his watch, willing time to pass faster. Exactly an hour later he heard a timid knock and jumped up to open the door. Anna was wrapped in a thick white robe two sizes too big, her hair in a towel, cheeks flushed red. Eames raised an eyebrow and gave her a crooked grin.

"What's going on here?"

"How did you think I was planning to distract him Mr. Eames?" She said, returning his grin with a smile of her own. "Hurry. He's going to be back in his room in an hour and I have to be there. "They walked to the double doors and she pulled a ring of keys from the pocket of the robe, flicking through them while shaking her head. "Please be careful," she said, finally fitting the right key to the lock. "I knew when she came in here that she deserved better. I don't know if that's you, but I know it's not here."

The double doors swung open and as soon as Eames went through Anna locked them shut behind him.

In front of him was a wide corridor lined with closed black doors.  As silent as a church, at the end of the hall was a sunlit room, a lounge of sorts with floor to ceiling windows covered in gauzy white curtains. A couple of girls were in nightgowns and robes laying on the overstuffed couches reading magazines, fiddling on laptop computers. When they saw Eames they froze, unsure of how to react to a stranger and one who didn't seem to be in charge.

"I'm looking for Ralia," he said, looking down the dark corridors that stretched off of the lounge.

A petite brunette with wide set green eyes got up off the couch and took Eames' hand, sliding it beneath the hem of her gown.

"What do you need from her, sir, that we can't help you with?"

Eames shook himself free and pushed her back down on the couch.

"Stop. Where is she?"

The girl on the laptop answered without looking up. "We don't have the same names that you know. Ralia probably isn't even her real name. As soon as we get here everything about us is changed. It keeps us safe.  Besides, when you meet her, you're seeing her as she sees herself, her perfect projection."

"She's short. She's...blonde. She has dark blue eyes."

A door opened and clicked shut somewhere behind him and he turned on his heel to figure out which one. They were all identical, covered in shiny black lacquer with silver knobs. There were no nameplates, no numbers, just silver plaques studded with what looked like a constellation of diamonds, a replication of the pleiades. On each door a different star was studded in red, the only indicator of who was inside. Laptop girl shouldered past Eames and opened her own door. He saw an opulent room inside - windowless but plush with a queen sized bed, floor to ceiling bookshelves, a desk, fresh flowers, a television. When she caught him staring, she said,

"It isn't me. I'd remember lips like those," and shut the door in his face.

He was running out of time. Every minute was a mile further away from here.  He needed to get her out.

"Ralia!" He yelled, pounding on each door. "Ralia, open your door. I'm here to take you home."

Other doors opened and strange women poked their heads out, none of them even remotely familiar to him. Only one door stayed closed and he saw a shadow move in the space beneath it. He moved to sit on the floor in front of it, his hand on the wood, tracing the frame with one fingertip. When he spoke, it was low and even.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I went against what you asked. But...but you don't belong here. You know that. Even Anna knows that. She knows you need to escape.  I know why you're afraid.  I know what happened.  She told me.  I can help you.  I promise you."

He heard her sniff. He heard her lean against the door. He knew that if he tried the handle it would open, but he didn't want to. He wanted her to open it. He wanted her to let him in.  After a moment, she answered him.  The sound of her real voice, the sound of her as an actual person, only inches away from him, sent a shiver through him.

"You can come in," she said. "You've come this far, you can come in.  But I promise, you won't want to take me with you.  I'm...I'm not the same girl."

She stood and opened the door, turning away from him to sit on the edge of her bed.  

The room was dark, not nearly as luxurious as the others.  He flipped the switch beside the door to find a sparsely decorated bedroom, no books, no television.  There was an old record player in the corner with vintage vinyl records.  An iPod sat charging in its doc, a laptop computer with racks and racks of CDs beside it.  But all he cared about was the girl on the bed, small, with long honey blond hair, exactly as he saw her in their dreaming.  

"Sit next to me," she said, still looking down into her lap.  Her hands were folded but she picked at her nails.  

Eames sat down beside her and pushed her hair away from her face, behind her ear and she sighed with pleasure.  They didn't have time for anything but escape, but just to touch her for real for this one minute was worth everything they'd gone through.  He put his hand under her chin and tipped her head up to look at him.  It was then that he realized, then that he understood why she'd wanted so desperately to keep him in her dreams.  

"This is what I meant, Mr. Eames.  That if you were with me in real life...I would never see you again."

Her eyes were not dark blue, but milky white, the skin around them dark red like she'd been crying for months.  A burn scar ran from her left eye down the length of her cheek as if it traced the trail of a tear.

"You can leave me if you want," she said. "I know I'm not the Ralia you wanted."  She stared straight ahead, blinking back tears, assured by his silence that he'd soon be gone.  

Instead, he turned her face so he could see it straight on.  He opened her satin robe and smiled, the skin between her breasts was creamy white, unmarred.  The tattoo was gone.  

"You're exactly what I wanted." He kissed the lids of her clouded eyes, the darkened, scarred skin on her cheek and finally her lips, holding her close, his hands tangled into her hair. "Come on," he said, pulling her to her feet. "I'm taking you home."  


	11. On The Run

The door man tipped his hat to the couple hurrying through the lobby to a waiting taxi.  The gentleman looked tired but well put together, cream colored linen pants and a crisp buttery yellow shirt, a few days stubble but that's how the Westerners were wearing it these days.  He held to tight to the hand of the petite young lady beside him and she kept one hand on his shoulder.  The doorman wondered for a moment if they were celebrities, movie stars from Europe, because of how they kept their heads down, both hidden behind sunglasses, the woman's hair wrapped in a bright yellow scarf. He could barely see her face.

"Come visit us again soon, sir," the man said to the couple, holding open the door of the taxi.

The gentleman let the lady slide in first while he fished out a generous tip.  He pressed the money into the doorman's hand, clapped him hard on the shoulder and with a wide smile said,

"Not bloody likely, my good man," before disappearing into the car himself.

Definitely movie stars, the doorman thought as the taxi zoomed out of sight.

************

They had half an hour at least until Evan might realize that her necklace had been deactivated.  Mr. Eames had taken it from her neck and left it on the bed of her room before they left on the off chance that it would buy them more time.  Still, Ralia had been terrified to leave the corridor of the Pleiades much less the hotel itself.  It wasn't until Mr. Eames laced his fingers into hers and promised to keep her safe that she let her heart settle, walking behind him with her hand between his shoulder blades, breathing in the spicy, woodsy scent that she'd never detected in their dreaming.  They took no bags, none of her belongings, as meager as they were.  Anna had left her manufactured passport and birth certificate at the front desk, as well as a check for five thousand Euros, the money she'd earned on auction -- all from Mr. Eames.

Once they were in the taxi, Mr. Eames drew her close, hugged her against him.  She tried to imagine what he might look like at that moment, what Marrakech looked like...whether they were being followed or not, whether he was horrified at what she really was, the monster she'd been turned into.  She buried her face in his chest, hiding from the man who was risking everything to save her.

"Relax darling," he whispered into her hair. "You're with me now. "

"Thank you Mr. Eames...but you don't have to feel beholden to me.  I know I'm not the girl I presented when we met."

He kissed the top of her head.

"Your hair is more gold than in your dreams," he kissed the tips of her fingers, "and your fingers are longer, slimmer."  Then he caught her lips between his own and kissed her with a reserved, concentrated passion, the taste of his tongue bringing her instantly back to their time in the hotel rooms of his mind. "But your mouth is the same."

She could tell he was smiling and it brought tears to her eyes.  She'd been literal with him before.  If they were together in real life, she'd never see him again.  And it crushed her.  It was part of why she didn't mind working for the Pleiades.  Back in the hotel she could close her eyes and see everything, just as she'd seen it a year ago.   Her blindness was still so new to her that she was bitter, refusing to learn braille, still stumbling into walls, doing nothing but laying in her bed surrounding herself in prepetual darkness.  There was no reason to do anything else.  Maybe now...

"Where are we going?" she asked, pulling away when he touched his fingers to her wet cheeks, too close to the scars. "Do you live in Morroco?"

"Oh no, darling. I just come here for the sex trade and the drugs."

The taxi driver laughed at this and she heard the two men talk to each other briefly in a language she didn't understand.

"We'll stay in an apartment that belongs to a friend of mine for a day or two while I make arrangements at home since I'm sure they'll look for you at the airport.  We can leave for London when the search dies down.  I'll keep in touch with Anna to get updates."

They drove on, Mr. Eames massaging the back of her neck, the hot sun warming her cheek through the window.  She hadn't been outside in months.  Anna took her for a walk once or twice when she'd first arrived, but once she'd gone on auction, she stayed inside...to protect the investment.  Anna had been good to her.  Anna had also told her that money was all that mattered to her.  Anna was excellent at manipulation. 

"How do you know she won't give us away?" she asked. "What if they punish her?"

"Anna's a smart woman.  She knows me, and what she doesn't know about me she can find out from her boss.  Not particularly wise to get on my bad side.  I trust her though, she'll be a good girl."

The words sent a chill down her spine, deep in her belly.  Good girl.  She wondered if Eames would still want her to serve him...to submit.  She didn't want him to be gentle with her just because she was damaged.  She still wanted to be his good girl.  With her hand on his thigh, she leaned to whisper into his ear.

"I'm a good girl, too, aren't I Mr. Eames?" She bit down lightly on his earlobe and felt his muscles tense.

"I hope so, kitten.  We'll be at the safe house inside of ten minutes, then we'll see how good you are."

He turned his face to kiss her on the mouth, a little rougher than before, a little deeper, one of his hands kneading her breast.

"Tell me, something darling...is your name really Ralia?"

"No Mr. Eames," she said between kisses. "My real name is Violet."

"Ahhh," he said. "My delicate little flower."

For the first time in a long time, Violet laughed.


	12. The Safe House

He liked how she clung to him in the back of the taxi, how he could smell the amber and citrus of her perfume, her hair, the sweat on the back of her neck.  He wondered if she could feel his stare.  She ran her fingertips over the bones and sinew that made up the landscape on the backs of his hands, her leg casually hooked over his. As they left the center of the city and the traffic began to thin out, Eames looked at his watch. It was right about now that Evan would be checking on the girls, checking their collars and finding Violet gone.  For a moment he worried for Annabelle, what her punishment would be, whether she'd crack if she were tortured.  He never thought Evan was the torturing type.

"Are you OK Mr. Eames?" She asked, lacing her fingers into his. "You just tensed up."

"We just need to get to the safe house little Violet. Then I'll feel better." He kissed the top of her head. "Once we're inside you can help me loosen up."

The world outside blurred as it zoomed by, the colors of the tourist center fading into the outer edges of the city. The taxi slowed, looking for streets, the landmarks Eames had given him. His phone rang and he fished it from his pocket.

"Where are ya, mate? I've got to get out of her in the next twenty minutes and I'm bloody well not leaving a key under the mat."

"Calm yourself, Yus. I'm trying to stay under the radar my friend. We're about five minutes out."

He clicked the phone shut and sat back against the seat feeling the pulse pound in his throat. He'd never forgive himself if it didn't work.

******

The safehouse was a bright white riad near the Medina, a smart place to hide as it was right in the middle of a busy marketplace- people yelling, haggling, dragging home bags full of treasures.  Tourists from around the world, perfect camoflauge for the both of them, wandered the streets looking up at the architecture, snapping photographs, oohing and ahhing.  Eames' friend Yusuf held open the black wrought iron gate that marked the entrance to the courtyard of the riad where the sun dappled the surface of a small pool.  Trees in metal pots provided shade and white gauze curtains billowed out like ghosts from the open windows on the second floor.    Part of Eames wanted to just pull Violet into a room, collapse into a cool linen covered bed and fall asleep, to just hold her in his arms and breathe in her scent and listen to the world outside.  Another part of him wanted to pull her into a room and not go to sleep at all.  But the brains part of Eames knew that he needed to solidify plans.  He needed to secure flights, he needed to make sure their tracks were covered and convince Violet they were safe.  

Yusuf handed him the keys and left the house in a hurry, no doubt trying to keep someone off of his tail as well.  Once Eames was confident that no one was outside he turned and saw Violet sitting at the edge of the pool, leaning back on her palms, her face turned up to the sun, toes kicking at the water.  She'd taken her scarf off and her hair fell like a sleek honey colored ribbon down her back.  She was smiling.

"Can you swim, darling?" He asked, pulling off his watch and belt.

She nodded. "I can, Mr. Eames.  I haven't been swimming in almost a year.  I miss it terribly."

After undressing completely, Eames dove into the deep end of the pool and glided under the water to the edge where her toes dangled under the surface like bait.  He popped up, shook his hair back from his face and ran his wet hands up the warm skin of her calves.  

"Unzip your dress, kitten.  I don't want to get it wet."

Violet went up on her knees and folded her arms back like delicate wings, pulling down the zipper of her dress.  It fell from her shoulders, down past her hips.  She was wearing bra made of creamy yellow lace and satin and yellow lace panties.

"Sit back down on the edge darling, just as you were."

She did as she was told, leaning back on her hands, eyes closed.  He stood between her open legs and kissed the insides of her thighs, his tongue teasing the edges of her panties, just darting beneath the elastic before moving on to kiss the bones of her hips.  She moaned at the touch of his lips, wrapping her ankles around his broad shoulders, pulling him in closer.  He loved being able to smell her, the real spicy musk of a woman aroused, slippery wet and open to him.  He pulled at the waistband of her panties with his teeth, pulling them down as she lifted her hips from the ground.  As he dipped his tongue between her legs, holding tight to her thighs, she reached down and tangled her fingers into his wet hair, whimpering and trembling beneath his ministrations.  He lost himself inside her, the taste the smell, the feel of her skin, her reality.  After making her come, he pulled her into the pool and kissed her beneath the water.  They twisted and slipped and swam and lost track of the time.  It wasn't until the sun was setting and the air got cool that Eames pulled her from the pool and wrapped her in a thick white towel.  

As they walked in the house to find something to eat, Eames noticed that he'd missed a phone call.  It was Annabelle.  After the phone call was a text message, short and incomplete, but it was all Eames needed.

"Find a way home soon. He knows she..."

He threw the phone on the table and guided Violet to a couch.

"Is everything ok?" She asked, her smile so content, so youthful and optimisitic.

"No, everything is not ok. I haven't eaten in almost a day.  You rest here and I'll get you some dinner."

For once he was glad to leave her in the dark.


	13. Tortured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for non consensual bondage and violence.

Eames sat on the couch, staring at nothing, exhausted and hungry, a cigarette he'd forgotten about smoldering between his fingers, stinging his eyes with smoke. On the coffee table in front of him the lap top cursor blinked on an empty page, his phone sat silent and his battered old leather bound journal of dreamscape notes and observations lay open to a page about "speed sedation and extraction".  Yusuf was supposed to be calling him back with the name of a new point man in the network looking to build up experience working for cheap.  But the phone had been silent for days.  He glanced at the bottle of scotch he'd been drinking and scowled at the tiny puddle of amber liquid that remained then drained it, letting the bottle rattle onto its side.  The cigarette burned down enough to scorch his fingers and he dropped the butt, jumping up to stamp it out before it left a burn on the hardwood floor.  As he bent down to retrieve it a glint of metal caught his eye.  He swept his hand beneath the couch and came out a with a single earring, a weighty silver and onyx chandelier earring with tiny diamonds hanging like raindrops from the bottom.  When he closed his hand around it the post backing dug into the soft flesh of his palm, the sharp edges of the stones cutting into the skin of his fingers.  He squeezed harder, until his knuckles turned white, until he felt tears in his eyes, until he looked down and saw his palm filled with blood. 

*****

They had been safe for a while.

After receiving Anna's message that Evan knew she was missing, Eames didn't bother with complicated arrangements and planning.  He just packed Violet up and they headed to the airport where he bought two tickets to Gatwick.  They had hours to kill in the waiting area, but while Violet dozed with her head on his shoulder, her hair hidden beneath a scarf, her eyes behind dark glasses, Eames kept looking to his phone to see if Anna had any further information.  Nothing.  

"Anna. Just tell me you're OK," he sent, his stomach tightening at the thought that his actions would have gotten her hurt. 

But that didn't seem like Evan.  He'd known him since he was six years old, his neighbor growing up.  Eames taught him how to play chess.  Evan was his partner when they broke into Miss Hawkins garden shed to steal the pot they knew she had hidden there.  They were a brilliant young criminal syndicate, both masters of charm and wit, good upper middle class boys from the Harrow School who could impress the parents of all of their friends while simultaneously stealing twenty pounds from the desk in the front hall.  They were respected by their mates, chased after by the girls and yet both of them took their wealth of talent and ambition and bewitching smiles and ended up in a life of crime, traveling the world, both working as forgers in the dreamscape and taking it for all it was worth just to see how much they could get away with.  Turns out it was quite a bit.

After being off Eames' radar for a few years, Evan had turned up in a pub in Clapham six months ago, slapping Eames on the back and buying him a drink like he'd only been gone a minute.

It was on that night in the pub that Evan told him about the "network" of BDSM dream clubs like The Auction and how much money he was making turning out a gaggle of gorgeous submissive women, every shape and size, well trained and up for anything.

"I know what you're like, J," Evan said over a pint and a plate of greasy chips. "I know you like to be in control, on top if you will." He raised an eyebrow at his friend then leaned in a bit. "You're a Dom aren't you?  The whole scene, the collars, the bondage, whips, chains, the pride of ownership?  A beautiful girl on her knees begging for your cock?  We lived together for a while, mate, I've heard you in action.  I've seen you snap that black belt."

"And I suppose you're more into flowers and scented candles, eh?  It takes one to know one now doesn't it my boy?" Eames laughed off Evan's outing of his stranger proclivities, but in the back of his mind, the idea of going to The Auction was making the back of his neck hot.  Evan told him about the girls, how they lived in luxury, well taken care of, pampered and happy.  There were no safewords in the dream world, no limits.  Hell, there were girls willing to go through the pain of being killed in a dream for the right price.

Evan had some-- darker ideas of what Dominance meant, fantasies that went well beyond the scope of Eames' own limits, but he still didn't think Evan was capable of truly hurting Anna, or torturing her beyond being able to contact him.  Besides, if Anna told him that Violet was with Eames, he'd be angry, but he'd just let the trail drop.  He had to know that Eames could keep her safe.  He would let him keep her safe.  Wouldn't he?  It was the owner they were all hiding her from.  The man that blinded and burned her.  He was the villain.

Still, Anna never answered him.  Weeks went by and each day it became easier to believe that they were in the clear.  Violet became more comfortable with him, giving herself over fully, even letting him kiss and touch her scars as they lay in bed together, sweaty and spent after a few hours of playing.  Still, neither of them would admit to being in love.  It was as if saying it would cause the whole charade to shatter, that as soon as they found themselves fulfilled and happy the axe would fall and they'd be torn apart again.  But even without the words, both of them knew.  They knew because Violet began to learn Braille and tried her best to adapt to her blindness.  They knew because Eames made sure he was home every night to wash her hair for her in a deep, fragrant bubblebath.  He cooked for her and she rubbed his shoulders when he came home tense from extraction jobs he took every once in a while to keep them flush.  She loved dressing up and sitting next to him at the roulette table at Aspinall's.  He would hold the cool plastic chips up to her lips and she would kiss them for luck.  There was a red one, red and silver chip that was stained with her lipstick on one side.  That one he never cashed in.  He kept that one in his pocket and rubbed it between his fingers when the wheel spun. Her kiss was his good luck charm.  

At night, after her bath and before going to bed, Eames would watch t.v., stretching out in his comfortable leather chair with a glass of scotch and a cigar while Violet curled up and sat at his feet, her head resting on his leg, warm and covered in soft silk pajama pants.  He would stroke her hair and tickle the back of her neck while she teased him with her fingertips, stroking the insides of his thighs, testing his level of interest.  It only took a minute or two before he would stroke the side of her face and trace her lips with his thumb, slowly slipping it inside her mouth, over her tongue.  He was always interested.

 

**************

 

Eames waited for eight weeks before he bought the choker.  He didn't want to give her a traditional collar, a garish black leather strap, heavy and clunky against her slim, creamy white neck.  He wanted her to feel beautiful, to feel desired, but he knew that she wanted to feel owned.  So he found a jeweler in London that would create his own design: a thin silver choker with a center pendant of diamonds and sapphires clustered to look like a brilliant, many pointed star.  He picked it up on a Friday morning after picking up his cut from a two hour extraction job.  He put it in a black velvet box wrapped in silver paper.  Before going home he bought champagne and apricots and brie and stopped in for a gift at Coco de Mer. It was supposed to be a long and luxurious weekend with his good girl.  He was already devising delicious punishments for his little flower.

But when he got home the front door was ajar, wide open in fact.  He dropped his packages and ran up the steps and through the front hall.

"Violet?  VIOLET!"

He heard a scraping sound, a thud like something falling over as he ran upstairs to the bedroom.  It was a shambles, a broken lamp, shattered vase, sheets and blankets torn from the bed and there on the floor, struggling and sobbing, was Annabelle.  

She was naked, her hands and ankles bound behind her, the rope tight around her neck to keep her back arched into an uncomfortable bow.  She was gagged, her face bruised, her eye swollen shut.  Her long brown hair was cut off, only a few inches long now, spiked and uneven.  When she saw Eames she began twisting and crying, attempting to scream through the gag.  When he rushed over to her, to undo the ropes, to pull the gag from her mouth, she collapsed at his feet, unable to speak, unable to explain.  But there was no need for it.  He already knew.  On the bed in the midst of the mess was a white folded card.  Inside, handwriting familiar to him for years.

"Sorry J.  You should know by now what happens when you break the rules.  Don't worry, you can have this traitorous bitch instead.  I've broken her in...I'm sure she'll behave for you now. ~E"

"I'm sorry Mr. Eames," Anna cried, grabbing for his ankles.  "I tried Mr. Eames.  I tried."  He said nothing, didn't move, didn't look down.  What was he supposed to do?  "I'm so sorry."


	14. Alone

When Mr. Eames left Violet alone it took her hours to calm down. He didn't know that, of course, he would never leave her if he did.  She would never let him see what a basket case she was when he locked her in, promising her she was safe as houses and assuring her that he'd be home soon.  It wasn't that she worried for him at work.  He could handle himself and frankly he was safer committing crimes in the dreamscape than he would be on the streets. Besides, he never showed them who he really was.  It was like hiding in plain sight!  It was the silence that got to her.  So when she wasn't napping or taking a hot bath, she made a point of leaving the television on or listening to the radio, anything to keep the quiet away, to keep her brain quiet, distracted. 

That had been her punishment back when she lived with her first owner.  When she misbehaved or spoke out of turn or accidentally caught the eye of another man at a party, she would be locked in a closet in the dark.  It was in the basement of the house, cold and soundproofed and there was no way of knowing how much time had passed before he would let her out, happy to let her grovel and beg for forgiveness, crumpled at his feet.  Perhaps that was why he had blinded her.  It was a way to keep her forever unsure, perpetually in the dark.

But Mr. Eames didn't leave her alone very often.  His talent gave him the luxury of only working for certain, reputable dreamscape experts and only for the right price.  Yusef, of course, was top of the list, as well as a man named Cobb and a few other architects and point men that needed expert shapeshifters with few scruples for extraction jobs, tricking the emotional and the unprepared out of their fortunes.  With his money he outfitted his little flower in gorgeous clothes and lingerie, pampered her with massages and trips to spas and even got Violet a private tutor to teach her Braille.  Next month she was going to see a doctor who could perform surgery to repair the burn scar on her face.

********

"Not that I don't find you irresistable just as you are," he'd said, kissing the line of rough red skin that curved down her cheek.

They'd been laying together in the bath when he said it, Violet sitting between his legs, leaning back on his broad chest, listening to him talk about his last job, how easy it was to play on people's emotions, to recall something they loved, something they trusted and turn it on them in order to tear them down.  He felt her frowning as he explained it, felt the slight tensing of her muscles, the way she shrunk away from his touch just a bit.

"What's wrong, little flower?"

"You sound a little too happy to be stealing from people, that's all," she said, running her fingers over his knee, the long muscle on the front of his thigh. "I knew you were a thief I just thought..."

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back against him so he could speak into her ear.  She liked the feel of his chest hair against her skin. Indeed he was a master manipulator.

"Is that what you think of me?  That I'm out stealing from little old ladies and mothers with five mouths to feed?  I've told you I don't do those jobs.  Not anymore.  There are no innocent parties in the work I do, Violet.  The information or the money or the passwords or whatever it is that I'm helping to extract are either stolen or ill gotten.  The money I bring home is a finders fee...a reward."

"I know..."

He rubbed a thumb over her nipple and bit at her earlobe gently. "If I were to really take theiving seriously, you and I would be living on a yacht in the south of France and I would spend all of my time playing baccarat in the company of several barely clothed women.  Is that what you want?"

She splashed him and he scolded her with a playful growl and before long they left the tub for the warmth of their bed.

Only rarely did they meet in the dreamscape, and that was usually to act out elaborate fantasies or play dangerous games.  She didn't depend on the dreams to feed her soul anymore.  After a few weeks she no longer felt separate from him without her sight.  She knew every curve and plane of his body, every bulge of muscle, the feel of his hair, his lips, she'd memorized the patterns of his tattoos.  And yet it always thrilled her to see his face again, his green eyes and playful scruff, the angle of his jaw, the shock of his maple brown hair that would never behave, falling in front of his eye.  He'd surprised her once after they both went under, showing her a new tattoo on the inside of his bicep, a beautiful Victorian style V set on a black coil of rope.  She'd kissed it reverently, amazed that he'd marked himself permanently..for her.  She'd had her own surprise for him that day...the garish tattoo that had set so deeply in her soul disappeared from between her breasts and the look on his face when he saw her skin, creamy and unmarred, had brought a tear to her eye.

********

These were the memories that kept her calm and passed the time when he was away, although he'd told her that afternoon that he'd only be gone three hours at the most. 

"Maybe I'll have a surprise for you when I get home," he said, kissing the small of her back. "So rest up, my little wench." 

She'd smiled and snuggled deeper under the thick duvet of their bed.  He reached under and gave her ass a pinch before leaving.  

*********

So when she heard the front door lock click and the door open and shut she sat up at attention.  But he didn't announce himself.  From the first time he ever left her he'd always made a point to announce his return in order not to frighten her.

"Mr. Eames?" She called out, getting up from the bed.

She'd spent the afternoon getting ready for him; a long bath, a careful shave, her freshly shampooed hair pinned up with a diamond studded clip and wearing her blue satin nightgown.  She wondered if he would ever give her a collar.  It was something she anticipated like most girls awaited a diamond ring.  But those were just things.  They didn't matter.  All that mattered was that they were together.

"Is that you sir?" She asked, standing in the doorway of their bedroom.  Her heart began hammering against her ribs when he didn't answer and she regretted opening her big mouth.

Strange sounds came from the bottom of the staircase.  Along with footsteps she heard something sliding, dragging.  When the feet began climbing the staircase she backed into the bedroom then the en suite bathroom, closing the door.  She heard a feminine voice.  A voice in distress, whimpering.  She sat with her back against the bathroom door silently praying for Mr. Eames to come rescue her.  _Please come home sir.  Please come save me._

 _  
_The bedroom door banged open against the wall and Violet curled into herself, feeling dizzy.  The feminine voice she'd heard was closer.  The sounds of a struggle, and then his voice.

"Shut the fuck up.  You brought this all on yourself."

It felt as if her blood stopped pumping altogether, that her whole body froze solid, her lungs squeezed empty of air.  It couldn't be.  They promised her. They'd told her she'd never be found.  The woman began whimpering and struggling again.  She must have hurt him because he hissed in pain and Violet heard the unmistakable sound of a backhanded slap.  The struggling stopped.

"Now where's my little runaway?" He said, his voice laced with amusement. "I should have known you'd fall for Jasper.  Fucking charmer."

She felt around on the floor for anything that could be a weapon, then stood and felt her way to the cabinet where Mr. Eames kept his shaving supplies.  He spent hundreds of pounds on his grooming...badger brushes and sandalwood shaving cream.  On the top shelf she found it, his Bocote wood straight razor...the cut throat.  Just as she flicked it open he grabbed her and slammed her arm against the wall, the open blade rattling to the floor.

"It's so much easier when you can't see me coming," he hissed in her ear. "But I don't think you ever could have seen me coming, could you?" He slammed her head against the wall, his hand on her throat. "COULD YOU?"

"No sir, no."

"I bet you thought you were home free when The Auction found you, yeah?" he said, stroking her hair. "Poor blind Violet, a mangled face and nowhere to go.  Surprise baby!" He said before throwing her to the floor. "I own The Auction, too."

 

 


	15. Not Violet

Anna found him asleep, more likely passed out, on the sofa in the living room. She slipped off his shoes, picked up the empty bottle of whiskey and straightened out his pile of notebooks and papers. When she bent down to retrieve a pen from the floor he turned in his sleep and his hand brushed over her thigh. He groaned and grabbed her calf.

“Violet,” he mumbled, his fingers running up the inside of her leg.

“No Mr. Eames,” she said, putting a hand on his chest. “It’s me, Annabelle.”

He woke up then, as much as he could, rubbing his hand over his unshaven face, his head pounding from dehydration, his stomach sour and churning with bile. Anna was still crouched on the floor with the pen in her hand staring up at him.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, love.” He stood, smoothing his hand over her hair as if petting a loyal dog, then stumbled over to the small wet bar next to the kitchen to look for a new bottle to drown himself in.

“Please don’t do it Mr. Eames,” she said, moving to stand beside him.

“What?” He attempted to stare her down but his eyes were rimmed red and glassy, sunken from nights without sleep. He was in no position to intimidate anyone, least of all Anna who had watched him fall apart over the past couple of weeks.

“This isn’t going to help you find her, sir. I know you’re upset, you think you’ve failed her; that she’s gone for good. But he’s not going to kill her. He wants to keep her as a trophy. You just have to take her back.”

Eames wavered on his feat, nauseated and angry. They had been safe! Anna told him that he'd only left an hour or so before Eames had come home. An hour.  A faster cab, a quicker decision at the store, any number of things could have resulted in Violet still being there.  He cringed thinking of what Evan could be doing, of how scared Violet was of the two of them being separated.  His fingers found the red poker chip in the pocket of his pants, the one she'd kissed, her lipstick still staining one of the letters.  He flipped it over the back of his knuckles and back again.  A pacifier of sorts.  Then he chose the vodka.

"Or are you just going to drink yourself to death and let him win?"

He didn't even think, didn't realize it was happening, his arm simply reached out and slapped her with the back of his hand. She crumpled to the floor, her mouth filled with coppery blood, blinking back stinging tears. Eames stood there in shock, his hands in his hair.  He'd dropped the liquor bottle, spilling it onto the hardwood floor.

"God dammit. I'm sorry Annabelle. I'm so sorry."

He swept the top of the bar clean with one arm, cutting his hand open on a broken glass. Shards of crystal sprinkled into her hair.

"Don't be sorry," she said quietly, wiping the blood from her lip. "Just go find her."

*****

She'd never felt more shame than when Mr. Eames had found her, bound and gagged and naked on the floor of his bedroom, her face red and wet from tears, drool running down her chin from behind her gag. He'd looked at her as if she were a monster, a virus, a ticking bomb. All she could think of was "I'm sorry."  In the time when she was there alone she'd relived the sight of Evan dragging Violet from the bathroom by her hair, the tears streaming down her face as she screamed for Mr. Eames.  Anna had told him. Anna had revealed her location. Anna had gotten her kidnapped.  She was grateful that the girl couldn't see her face, couldn't see who had betrayed her.

For a while after bursting in the door Eames just stood and stared, the white folded note hanging from between two of his fingers while her limbs ached, her joints burned.  It was a punishment she deserved.  She knew he believed it too.  He pulled the gag out of her mouth and threw it aside.

"Mr. Eames I'm so sorry. I tried. You don't know what he did to me. He's a monster Mr. Eames.  I tried so hard to be quiet.  I didn't want to tell him." She thought long and hard before speaking again. She thought of how the message would sound from her mouth, what his reaction might be. Then she said "He's the one, Mr. Eames.  Your friend Evan.  He's the one who burned her. He's the one who blinded her."

That was when he truly realized she was there.

*****

He sat on the edge of the bed while Anna cleaned the cut on his palm and closed it with tape and bandages.  She moved with gentle, slow movements - precise.  After swiping the cut with a cotton ball dipped in peroxide she pursed her lips and blew a cool stream of air over the stinging wound.  There were still bits of glass glittering in her auburn hair and he picked them out with his other hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Eames," she said, not looking up.

Her cheek was red and swollen where he'd hit her.  _He's the one, your friend Evan_. The words echoed over and over.  Not only because it was true, but because Annabelle now saw them as linked, as one.  Eames was friends with the monster, the villain.  Perhaps she assumed he did the same things, meted the same punishments.  She may have been cleaning his wounds out of fear.  The realization made him ill.

*****

Aside from the bruises and burns from the ropes on her wrists and ankles, Anna's whole body had been stained with bruises and welts the day he found her. After untying her she rolled onto her side, revealing the cris cross of whip marks, angry and red across her back. The tops of her thighs were bruised, the telltale short straight cuts from a split cane scabbed over but still swollen, pink at the edges. She'd held out for more than a week once Evan had discovered her role in Violet's disappearance. It wasn't until he'd killed her repeatedly in her dreams, strangling her, stabbing her, beating her, that she'd finally broken. Eames made it his penance to take care of her, treat her wounds, hold her when she woke up in the night screaming, afraid that Evan would come kill her again.  It was his fault for asking her to help him get Violet out.  It was his fault for asking her to keep a secret.  He'd put the fear in her heart.

After a while she simply slept all night in his bed. He gave her sedatives and held her against his chest, stroking her hair until she fell asleep. They took comfort from being near one another. The heat of her skin helped him fall asleep once he'd woken from his own horrible dreams. When he couldn't calm down she would run her fingers over his tattoos, down his spine, then rub the muscles in his shoulders, working the knots from his neck, her touch relaxing him, a kind of meditation. There were nights when sleep was all that gave them any peace and they would stay in bed until the sun was in the west, shining through the window to wake them, to bring them back to their nightmarish reality.

The way he called her name out in the night, the way he cried for her in his dreams, begging her to return...Anna knew there could never be anything more between them. Even if she offered it, he would turn her down. But she owed him her loyalty.  It was all she had to give.

*****

"I know some people who may be able to help you find her, or at least find Evan," she said, looking through his dresser for a clean set of pajamas. "But I won't call them until you shower and get a good night's sleep. When you wake up we'll call Yusef and he can get a message to your contacts in Marrakech." Eames couldn't help but smile at her, bustling and busy, moving about the bedroom with authority.

"Why are you doing this? You've escaped from the Auction...why not just disappear? Get away from all this? I can help you.  You could become someone else entirely."

Anna stopped and smiled at him, her lips trembling a bit at the edges.

"You've always been one of my favorites Mr. Eames.  And believe it or not, I'm happy that you've found love. I can tell that you love her. Not all of us will have something like that in our lives. Not all of us are that lucky." She turned back to the dresser so he wouldn't see the tears welling in her eyes. She'd forgotten that details like that were his business. He knew she was crying right from the beginning. He could hear the shaking in her voice. "I just want to help you get her back.  To see you happy again.  Then I'll disappear. I promise."

Eames was standing behind her. When she turned around to hand him the pajamas he wiped the tear from her cheek and kissed her forehead.

"You don't have to disappear from everyone's lives," he said, wrapping her in his arms. "Some would be sorry to see you go."

She snuggled deep against his chest, breathing in the scent of him, his skin, his sweat, his clothes.  These tiny moments of kindness, of intimacy, of feeling him with his arms around her, his voice soft and comforting.  These moments would have to be enough.  


End file.
